I dreamt that my father was killed last night.

In my dream, it was as though actors had been cast to play the parts of my family members, with the exception of myself and my mother. The story-line was fairly simple, tragic even: My brother was hiding in the attic of a house (our house) with a bebe gun, and his friend who lived next door was also hiding in his own house with a bebe gun. They were playing a game, sort of like reconnaisance or some macho form of hide and go seek. The goal was to find and "destroy" the other player with the bebe gun.

The scene opens with the nose of a rifle illuminated, arising out of shadows. The shadows recede and we see my brother, flat on his belly amongst boxes of forgotten memories, clothes, furniture and other artifacts that one might expect to find in a lonely old attic. He points his "rifle" (which we can see is a bebe gun) and fires it out of the attic window, which is ajar slightly.

Cut to the house across the street. A young boy, not much over 14 or so, hides in his own home. The heavy, black muzzle of HIS gun (which is most definitely NOT a bebe gun), quivers in his hand. Excited by the sound of the bebes that have been so violently discharged from across the street, he points and shoots- 1, 2, 3.

Sitting alone in a room, one story below the action transpiring in the attic, my father slumps in his chair. Darkness pours out of him, filling the space below his chair as he sinks lower, sighs, and breathes his last.

My brother, of course, and many others in the home, are unaware of what has just happened. We see my mother, in the other room, preparing something, and myself, the omniscient eye, looking on in horror as she goes about her daily work, as my brother continues playing, as the boy across the street throws down the rifle and runs laughing out into the street, taunting my brother and oblivious of the horror that he has created in that room.

My mother walks into the kitchen, and seeing my father, leans down and begins to clean the dark shadow from the pine floor below him. She washes the floor ever so matter of factly, almost mechanically. When she is finished, she removes my father and continues as though nothing has happened at all.

I run into the room and scream at her, "where is dad!" and she looks at me as though I have gone mad, as though there is nothing wrong, nothing at all that would explain my outburst. I run into the kitchen and stare down at the stain on the once unblemished pine floor-- a pool-like stain, suspiciously lighter than the stain on the rest of the floor (perhaps from the Comet Bleach that my mother favors in cleaning large stains) and it is at this point that I fall apart completely. I sink to the floor, sobbing and out of control. As I lay there in that stain, I feel as though I am completely helpless, for there is nothing that can bring my father back to me again.

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I woke up sobbing on my bed, curled in a ball and at a loss for words. In fact, it has been 3 hours and I can honestly say that I still don't know what to do. I am at a loss, my emotions are tensed up in me, and even thinking about my dream brings me to tears. I am not sure if I should call my father, or my mother, or leave it be. But I can say that this is the second time I have dreamt of his death (the first time he died from a heart attack) and that he is the only family member that has ever died in a dream that I have had.